by Nancy Skopin
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
About the author
Murder on the Menu
Copyright © 2015 by Nancy Skopin
All rights reserved.
First E-Book Edition: April 2015
Also available in paperback.
Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics
This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental..
This book is for my husband Max and our dogs Buddy, Malcolm, and Turq. You are my inspiration.
I’d like to thank Juliann Stark for her superb editing skills and endless patience, Detective Mark Pollio for his insight into the world of law enforcement, and my agent Adam Chromy for his brilliance and tenacity.
Chapter 1
My name is Nicoli Hunter. I know it sounds like a cliché, a private investigator named Hunter, but it’s not what you think. My father chose the name when he arrived at Ellis Island. It’s just a coincidence that I ended up making my living as a kind of hunter.
Most of my work involves bar and restaurant surveillance, although I do the odd insurance investigation and on rare occasions agree to follow unfaithful spouses. Tonight my friend Elizabeth and I were dining and barhopping at the expense of four of my regular clients. We’d started our evening at a Microbrewery in the Union Square area of San Francisco, and had worked our way around the city.
At the moment we were standing in the lobby of a somewhat famous eatery on Montgomery Street. We were both slightly underdressed for this establishment, and the hostess (read queen bitch) was studiously ignoring us. This is part of the plan for many of my clients. They want to know how their employees behave when management isn’t onsite.
After waiting almost five minutes to be noticed, I approached the desk and asked the QB in my sweetest tone of voice if we could be seated. She looked me up and down, and replied with the expected, “Do you have a reservation?”
“Of course,” I responded. “Nicoli Sinclair, for eight o’clock.”
She made a show of reading the reservations ledger, then picked up two menus and showed us to a table directly outside the kitchen. Perfect, for my purposes at least. Every detail of each employee’s behavior would go into my report for the owner, not to mention the quality of the cuisine, the temperament of the crowd, copious notes regarding the condition and cleanliness of the establishment. You get the idea; attention to detail is critical.
Elizabeth looked around the room, trying not to stare at the rich and famous patrons while I observed the staff. Waiters were milling about taking orders and checking on customers who had already been served. It was still early in the survey, but at this point it appeared that the only fly in the soup was the hostess.
We were approached by a young man in black tie, minus the jacket, who, after introducing himself as Brad, asked if we’d like anything from the bar. Brad must be a new hire. I didn’t recognize him from previous surveys.
“I’d like a glass of something red. What would you recommend?”
Brad produced a wine list and asked a few pointed questions to help him narrow it down for me. “Do you prefer light, fruity, meaty…?”
I smiled at his etiquette and said, “The meatier the better.”
Brad made his recommendation and I acquiesced. He turned to Elizabeth who ordered a tall Mudslide. Brad hid a grin and said, “Very good, ladies,” before departing for the bar.
I momentarily turned my attention to my best friend, Elizabeth Gaultier. We’d met two years ago when I moved aboard my yacht and opened my PI office in the marina complex where we both currently live. She’s a pixie with a stratospheric IQ, just over five feet tall with strawberry blonde hair, a curvy figure, and a very slight accent left over from her childhood in New Orleans. Elizabeth is a walking paradox. She’s brilliant (though she insists she’s nothing special), outspoken to a fault yet incredibly kind and generous, and has a bawdy streak a mile wide. All attributes, in my opinion. She’s currently single, as am I, which is why she has time to occasionally accompany me on these little ‘shopping’ expeditions.
Brad returned and served our drinks, expectantly watching our faces as we each tried a sip. The wine he’d selected for me was exceptional. A combination of black currant and bell pepper notes, it was so dense I almost had to chew.
“Is it satisfactory, madam?”
“Outstanding. Thank you, Brad.”
He turned his inquisitive gaze toward Elizabeth who smiled around her straw and said simply, “Yummy.”
Brad nodded politely, but his eyes were twinkling. Most men twinkle at Elizabeth.
“Would you like to hear this evening’s specials?” he asked.
We listened attentively to the specials, (at least I did, since Elizabeth was people watching again), and ordered. As Brad departed I felt my cell phone vibrate in my purse.
“Shit. Who calls a PI after eight o’clock on a Wednesday?” I muttered as I pulled the Nokia from my bag. I didn’t recognize the number, but since it might be important I trotted into the hallway outside the restrooms rather than committing a major faux pas by answering at the table.
“Hunter Investigations,” I intoned.
“Ms. Hunter?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“My name is Kate Howard.”
I recognized her name instantly. Kate’s daughter, Laura, had been killed two weeks earlier. I’d been following the story on the evening news. Laura’s body had been found behind a dumpster on Bay Road, less than two miles from my office. According to the news reports, no persons of interest had yet been identified by the police.
Finally something more challenging than catching till-tapping bartenders. I grabbed the pen and notebook I keep in my purse as Kate spoke.
“I’d like to hire you to investigate Laura’s murder,” she said. Her voice was a soft monotone, which is often the case when people are in shock. “Th
e police won’t tell me anything, except that they don’t have any suspects yet, and that is not acceptable.”
“I can imagine how you must feel,” I said, although of course I couldn’t. “Why don’t you come to the office tomorrow so we can talk about it in person.”
Kate and I scheduled an appointment for the following morning and I gave her directions to my office in the marina complex. I slipped my phone and notebook back into my purse and returned to the table just as our Caesar salads were being served.
“What’s up sweetie?” Elizabeth asked.
“You won’t believe this,” I whispered. “Holy shit, I don’t believe this. Someone wants me to investigate a homicide. Have you heard about Laura Howard’s murder on the news?”
Elizabeth stopped with her salad fork halfway to her mouth and nodded.
“That was Kate Howard, Laura’s mom, on the phone. She’s coming into the office tomorrow.”
I entered the appointment in my PDA, then set my excitement about the new case aside so I could focus on the meal and the service.
The Caesar salad was the perfect combination of fresh greens, croutons, and anchovies, served with a piquant dressing which had been prepared at the table. My coulotte steak was so tender I could cut it with a fork, and the bordeaux reduction sauce contained diced morel mushrooms. I closed my eyes as the medley of flavors hit my tongue and almost had an orgasm. Elizabeth was very happy with her stuffed lamb chops, and we were both delighted with Brad. He was attentive without hovering, and absolutely charming.
When he delivered the check, in a black leather folder on a silver tray, I was ready to insert my credit card when I noticed something was amiss. The folder contained a time stamped register receipt, but it showed that it had been printed at 7:42 p.m. It was now almost 10:00 p.m. My steak and the two Caesar salads were listed, but rather than showing Elizabeth’s stuffed lamb chops, the second entrée listed was frog’s legs. The wine shown on the receipt wasn’t what I had ordered, and the tall mudslide wasn’t on the receipt at all. Brad had apparently held onto someone else’s receipt and was reusing it, so that our meal would not be recorded on the register. I tucked my credit card back in my wallet and slid a stack of cash into the folder instead.
When Brad returned with my change I pocketed the bogus receipt and left a tip in the folder. I was disappointed by my discovery. Brad was a really good waiter and he’d lose his job over this. Not that he didn’t deserve to lose his job, but I wasn’t looking forward to being there when it happened and sitting in on termination interviews is part of my standard protocol. Fortunately, most people are so embarrassed about being caught and so relieved that they aren’t being arrested, they never mention my identity and profession to their former coworkers.
We completed the bar survey in record time, and decided to call it a night.
Elizabeth was in a Mudslide stupor on the way home, so I shifted my focus back to Kate Howard. The police were probably already doing everything possible to investigate Laura’s murder, and I might be wasting my time if I took the case. I dislike wasting time. I am not among those fortunate individuals who can relax and allow life to happen while they placidly observe, although learning how to placidly observe is on my long list of things to do. Nevertheless, it sounded so much more interesting than anything else I was working on at the moment. The most excitement I’d had in several months involved videotaping a chef who was stealing frozen calamari from his employer. The Howard case would give me an opportunity to expand my area of expertise. Besides, this woman had lost her child. I couldn’t just turn her away.
What if, I thought, the detectives working the case were incompetent? Or what if they just didn’t care? It could happen. How much death and destruction can one individual absorb before becoming desensitized? I would listen to what Kate had to say with an open mind, and perhaps even speak with the RCPD homicide detectives handling the investigation, before making a decision.
Chapter 2
Thursday morning arrived without fanfare. Sunny skies, with a light breeze, and only seventy-five degrees at 8:00 a.m. The air conditioning in the office complex was on the fritz again so I opened a couple of windows to create a cross draft.
The marina where I live and work is in Redwood City, California. I live aboard a forty-six foot Cheoy Lee motor sailor called Turning Point. Two years ago I qualified for my private investigator’s license, got divorced, and moved onto the sailboat. It was definitely a turning point in my life.
The complex consists of five office buildings, one exceptionally good restaurant, and six gates, or docks, within which are housed approximately five hundred yachts. About two hundred and fifty of the yachts are owned by individuals and families who live aboard, as I do.
Across the street from the marina is the Bair Island Nature Preserve. It’s a safe place for egrets and herons to roost, in spite of the fact that people come from all over the county to walk their dogs there.
Redwood City is a small town by California standards. The weather is generally mild, although in the summer the temperature occasionally climbs to over a hundred degrees, and the coast gets a lot of wind.
I’d heard on the news that Kate Howard and her husband lived in Atherton, an affluent community just south of Redwood City.
Since our appointment wasn’t until 10:00, I had time for a workout. I finished typing the reports from last night, then locked up the office and drove around the corner to the gym.
I work out regularly and I try to live on the Zone Diet, but sometimes I cheat. Coffee is not on the Zone Diet, it turns out, and neither is Guinness, but I make an effort. I don’t do these things because I’m obsessed with my appearance. I do them because my self-esteem is affected by my behavior. Being a trained observer, I’ve noted with some dismay that I exhibit guilt symptoms when I drink to excess, don’t work out often enough, or eat unhealthy food. The guilt undermines my self-confidence, which leads to additional self-destructive behavior. It’s a vicious circle.
After an exhaustive workout I drove back to the marina and showered aboard the boat, scrunched up my curls, applied mascara, lip gloss and my usual work clothes, and hiked back up to the office complex.
Kate Howard was punctual, dry-eyed, and one snappy dresser. She was probably in her late forties, but she didn’t look a day over thirty-five. Her hair was shoulder length, honey blonde with highlights, and expensively cut to frame her heart-shaped face. She was about five-eight, her eyes were blue, and her skin was like porcelain. She was dressed in a teal silk shell and form-fitting David Kahn jeans. Her shoes were Stuart Weitzman leopard print flats and they matched her belt and her microscopic shoulder bag. In spite of the compassion I wanted to feel for this woman, I thought there might be something wrong with anyone who looked this put-together while enduring such a monumental loss.
I was dressed in Eddie Bauer cargo shorts, a short sleeve white cotton shirt, and New Balance Cross Trainers. I had tidied up the office, but I rarely alter my dress code even for socialites from Atherton. I do my best thinking when I’m comfortable.
I stood up as Kate drifted toward my desk, and shook her hand. It was limp, cool, and felt as though it had recently been exfoliated. I always make a point of shaking hands with someone I’m meeting for the first time. I’ve found that my intuition kicks in when I make physical contact, as long as I have no preconceived opinion, and providing the individual in question doesn’t remind me in some way of my mother, my father, or my cousin Aaron – the three people most likely to push my buttons. Any similarity to one of them disables my objectivity.
I offered Kate coffee and she declined when she found out I didn’t have decaf. I don’t believe in decaf. Either it’s coffee or it’s not, and decaf isn’t coffee.
Kate carefully examined my visitor’s chairs before selecting the one on the right and sitting down. She heroically resisted the urge to d
ust it off. For the record, the chair wasn’t dirty, it was just old.
My little ground floor office isn’t elegant, but it’s not shabby either. Two of my four walls are almost floor-to-ceiling windows that slide open, and the double front doors have glass panes in them. The view from my desk encompasses a substantial portion of the marina, including my boat and those of my neighbors, as well as the lush grounds of the office complex. I can see the sky, the earth, and the water. The view satisfies a fundamental need I have to stay in touch with nature.
My carpet is only three years old and a rich shade of forest green. I have a safe concealed behind a framed photo of the Great Wall of China, three file cabinets, a fax machine, one black-and-white and one color printer, two straight-backed visitor’s chairs, and my own ergonomic swivel chair behind the desk. The desk itself is solid oak and it took four of Bekins’s burly movers to get it in from the truck.
On top of my desk is a Dell desktop computer, a three-line telephone, an in-tray, an out-tray, an ashtray, and a few stacks of file folders. The files I keep atop my desk are not of the confidential variety. Those I lock in my Pendaflex drawer.
I keep a Ruger revolver in a Velcro holster strapped to the bottom of my lap drawer. I haven’t needed it yet, but I grew up watching Mom’s Thin Man videos so I feel more secure knowing it’s there.
I have a kitchenette equipped with a toaster oven, a coffee maker, and a small refrigerator, as well as a sink and garbage disposal. I keep a portable cabinet with a TV and VCR/DVD player in the kitchen, so I can view surveillance tapes and discs. I store the TV in the kitchenette so my clients won’t think I spend my days watching soaps. I have a private bathroom, unlike most of the offices in the complex. This was a major selling point, along with the fact that the office is only a hundred and fifty yards from my boat.